He nervously entered a bladesmith’s workshop. It ran deep under a building. Apprentices filed and polished daggers and swords on the finishing benches. It seemed a good place to ask. He was directed to speak to a stocky, bald man who wore a smart, woad-blue tunic under his apron, as did his workers. His uncle would have been horrified, accusing them of dressing like fussy women — in the camps you wore the sweat on your skin.
Dalathos presented a letter from his uncle, to certify he was prudent and loyal. He asked about joining fees.
The man was polite, if brusque. No, they had no need for another apprentice. Everyone had been taken on before the Spring Fair.
Dalathos mentioned Little Giant, and the water bellows, and how a prayer offering could make the steel stronger. He got narrowed eyes for that.
“We work our own way here. We’ve no patience for tricks.”
Dalathos thanked the smith for his time, and approached others. Some were more friendly, others downright rude. They all said the same thing, more or less. Dalathos took Protector out for show when he could. Though one or two cooed as they touched it, when Dalathos briefly told of its forging, they said the work was his uncle’s, not his.
The best reply he could get was to return at the end of the month, when any slackers or thieves had been turned out. It was all so discouraging, and left him doubting himself.
He returned to Tilirine and Ulric, stood patiently in the square. Dalathos felt his boots weigh heavy. He knew he was skilled, but no one believed him. Nor would they let him prove his worth. His grand dream was fast unraveling.
Ulric clasped him on the shoulder. “There’ll be other places.”
Dalathos nodded at the right of it. At worse, if no one would take him on, he could return to Rhalinias, and beg to smith for Prince Renforth’s knights — if that offer remained open. At least Dalathos had money now, and could afford to wait.
Tilirine waved them both through a passageway. “There is more to see.”
They crossed a small bridge over a dirty stream. A cobbled alley ran both ways in front. Tilirine invited them left, into the smell of worked leather. An arcade of workshops presented all types of goods: long hide coats, soft suede tunics, molded breastplates boiled hard in wax, shields and bucklers, tents, sacks, and row upon row of boots of every description. Dalathos nodded, unsure what to say.
Tilirine led back, but instead of returning over the bridge, she continued on. Workshops for bowyers and fletchers opened around a cobbled courtyard.
The first displayed crossbows in a range of weights and designs. The largest had complex-looking mechanisms for loading. Dalathos couldn’t help but to stop and grin at these. He’d wanted one since he’d been a boy. Some men at the camps used them in games, and Edras had made his own, showing it off — it had been a prized possession. He’d let Dalathos shoot it once, but otherwise guarded it jealously. Dalathos stared at the display, desiring one. To be respected like the others in the camp had been.
Tilirine caught his expression. “If you want anything, consider it now. I can haggle for prices, and see what you might afford.”
That lifted his spirits — he grinned at Ulric. “We should get one of these each.”
Ulric shook his head. “Just need a hunting bow. The shaft of my other broke, coming here.”
“You need to be better armed and protected,” Dalathos said. “Let last night be a lesson on that.”
Ulric faced him. “I’m not planning on fighting people. Anyway, wouldn’t know how to use one of them.”
“Here, I’ll show you.” Dalathos lifted a small crossbow from the display. He pulled the draw lever back and notched the string, to leave it ready to shoot. “Then you take off the safety catch, and pull the trigger bar to let fly.”
A firm hand grabbed his arm. A wiry man, in a long tunic of fine maroon wool, took the crossbow from his hands. “I’ll mind you not to do that, or you’ll be paying for broken goods. You never dry shoot a crossbow, as it could shatter the frame.”
Dalathos flushed with embarrassment. A moment ago he’d felt almost as giddy as a child. Now he felt scolded like one.
The man uncocked the crossbow and placed it back on the display.
Dalathos tried to recover his dignity. “We should get one light enough to handle when riding. It’ll be just like using your bow, only better. And more powerful.” He wondered why he’d thought about using one from horseback. Perhaps he just remembered the camp games. Or else being sore from Sirath’s mules.
Ulric stood firm. “I’ll not buy a crossbow.”
“Why not?”
“Told you.” Ulric set his jaw stubbornly.
“Ulric, I came here looking for an apprenticeship. I’ve not got it yet, and that’s a disappointment. But we’ve both got money. We should look to show our rise in status with new things.”
“Why?”
Dalathos began to lose patience. “I came to Corianth to make something of myself. Now I can. Yet there you stand in your dirty old clothes, not wanting to try something different. Why did you come to the city, if it was just to be the same man you left home as?” Dalathos regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. He feared that he’d caused offence, and that Ulric might confront him for it.
Instead, Ulric paled and stared down at himself. “I ... I don’t want to fight. Better if outlaws were scared from starting one.”
Dalathos patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s make a new man of you, ready to face anything the world throws at us.”
As they tramped back to the heart of the Armories, Dalathos wondered what he’d do next. Ulric would probably leave with Sirath today. Dalathos could accompany them for a while, and lodge at a cheap inn outside of the city. But Jerine had paid for two more nights, and it might be worth taking advantage of that hospitality.
One way or another, he still had to find somewhere to apprentice him. He might have better luck on the morrow. Perhaps he could dare approach the smiths for the Emperor’s Guard? The day remained full of possibilities.
Give the Kill Order
Molric
Molric pushed scrolls and books into a canvas sack, eager to leave his cramped room in the Lion Inn. Impatient to enter his new apartments, and the luxury of being able to wash and dress in fresh clothing. Excited to present himself for election tonight, for the chancellorship. Ready to become the master of history.
All he had to do was wait for his last messages to be acted upon. That was a trying process. Coming from an age where information traveled instantaneously — across the stars with a synchrotronic server — and where he could learn a book, a language, a martial art, through neural induction, he had been forced to discover the true meaning of patience.
His last frustration was not knowing anything of this past. The files downloaded from Jewel had proven useless. The Great Burning had destroyed much of the human record. What little remained had been edited and redacted by the Imperium that rose from its ashes. The only potential reference he could discover was from the Foundationist Monks — if their book could be believed — describing a period of madness and blood.
Molric would write a new chapter in time. Of peace, prosperity, and innovation.
The proximity alarm from his Vox sounded in his mind.
Footsteps approached, and Rodrigan’s coded knock rapped.
Molric had a moment of difficulty with that wretched, sticking door. He happily bade him enter.
When the door closed, Rodrigan pulled back his hood. His face was ashen and sweating, his eyes wide. “Your life is in danger.”
Molric stepped back in surprise. He primed his Vox to full power, and looked for an imminent attack. “What has happened?”
“Amberlin’s agents broke into the Bellinis warehouse, attacked the laborers, and burned the place. Our cargo is destroyed, the Sun Flower with it. Bishop Serannos is captured and now detained by the Emperor’s Guard.”
Molric reeled at the news. “Agents for Councilor Amberlin did this?”
Molric sat down on the bed to steady himself. “Are you sure?”
“Surviving workers provided his description. Lora trailed him here from the docks after the fire. And our informant within the Emperor’s Guard named the Duke Dalathos as one of Amberlin’s agents. There is no mistaking it.”
Molric’s stomach roiled. He glanced to the ceiling, remembering that Rodrigan had said the man held rooms just above. That was surely no coincidence. Despite every precaution, he might have tried eavesdropping on their conversations. Molric whispered, “Is he here?”
Rodrigan shook his head. “He left with his companions earlier this morning. When he returns, my Cardinal’s Men will slow him as best they can, until you escape. I’ve summoned for an armored wagon to transport you safely to your apartments at Imperial Row.”
Molric’s mind whirled. The notion of flight was inconceivable so close to his ascension. So was the loss of the Monument Trade Route. He had to determine how far the consequences spread, and how much this may affect his plans.
Rodrigan paced the room. “Serannos will be interrogated. He will say your name. Tonight’s vote ... ”
Anger flared through Molric’s body — nothing must risk that. Part of him wanted to stride up to the Citadel of the Guard, blast the walls apart, and drag Serannos from prison — dead or alive. But then Molric would become a terrible thing, a monster. A god to be feared and rise up against. No different from the Imperium. And he refused to become like that.
He sat back in thought for a long moment. He found himself calming. None of this may be so terrible as first feared. It may mean nothing more than three kings would not receive their arms when expected. He could remedy that later. “This does not change our plans.”
Rodrigan remained anxious. “I cannot control the Order alone. I need support to maintain High Priest Harrinian as a figurehead. With Serannos imprisoned I risk the loss of a faction and the rise of the deacons.”
“By tomorrow I will have the throne, and will elevate your station beyond any challenge. Then you can bring the Cardinal Pontifex to power, and Father Dinemetis will be nothing more than a spider to be crushed underfoot. As will any opposition.”
“But what if you stand accused?” Rodrigan insisted. “If the council are turned against you, the vote may not happen. Then you will never become chancellor, and all our hopes are destroyed.”
Molric settled into a grim smile. “Serannos will not be the problem you think. Allegations are unfounded until proven. What charge can be brought against me? If Serannos spoke, no doubt he was tortured. A lip bleeding, an eye swollen? Proof of it. And testimony given under torture cannot convict a city councilor.”
Rodrigan appeared unconvinced. “It will come before the council — ”
“If it does, then what of it? That an exalted man of the Order was found at the site of a tragic fire? Kidnapped and tortured, to present base slander? Amberlin would not dare. He needs proof of my involvement, and he has none.” Molric enjoyed the sound of his own voice. Partly because of the solitude he had endured in this room. But also because he saw the chance to disarm any claims against him. “I assure you, whatever Serannos might say, Amberlin cannot undermine me directly.”
“His agents could. Amberlin has shown desperation enough to act beyond the law. I fear it’s just a matter of time before this Duke Dalathos and his companions break down your door. Just as Buck Monkin did in Mardin.”
Molric clenched his jaw at that reminder. “Amberlin cannot be allowed to cause further disruption. Give the kill order. I want all of his agents dead.”
“But what of the Duke Dalathos? He’s employed by the council, and enjoys its protection. If the Cardinals’ Men confront him, Amberlin might stir that into something more.”
Molric nodded. That might be Amberlin’s plan after all — to engineer an uproar in the chambers, at the very moment when Molric needed the council to be complacent. “There is no lawful way to address this. Daria must send Five Fingers Jack men here, today. Once the Duke Dalathos returns, neither he nor his companions must be allowed to leave alive.”
Rodrigan pulled his hood up and stepped to the door. “I’ll send messages.”
Molric drummed his fingertips together. The twins had been slow to act on the bookkeeping matter. Better if he took the initiative. “Summon Lora. She can finish this, once and for all.”
Rodrigan nodded. “I’ll return shortly, when the wagon arrives. I trust you can protect yourself until then.” He wrenched the door open, and pulled it tightly closed after.
Molric stared after. The memory of Buck Monkin bursting in at Mardin returned to haunt him. He touched a hand upon his Vox and light pulsed between his fingers. Anyone who intruded would be killed without warning.
Molric remained alone. He breathed heavily, and waited.
A New Plan
Ezekiel
Ezekiel hurried along narrow streets — Jerine’s companions thought their work here in this city was done, but for him it was just beginning. He had to find and stop Molric, at any cost.
He kept his facilitator powered low, to scan for any signs of Imperium Technology. All he’d found so far had been a ghost-image in his room at the inn. That had likely been caused by his connection with Weasel. So he’d left the animal behind, to avoid interference with any signal he might discover. That would also keep Weasel safe — Ezekiel was looking for explosives. And he knew where he might find some.
They’d been told of three warehouses to search, and the first demonstrated that Molric had manufactured simple explosives. Ezekiel should be able to detect where more might be kept — if he got close enough. The river docks were best avoided after last night’s fire, as they would be crawling with city officials. However, the third warehouse had been described as at the sea docks. Ezekiel intended to find it. And with that, a trail to Molric.
His initial enthusiasm stalled in the twisting maze of alleys. He would follow one west, only to find it wind back east. He tried to use the Emperor’s Rock as a guide, but too often it was obscured by high buildings, and Ezekiel misjudged his position.
Ragged people stared as he passed — pale savages, filthy, and backward. Watching with suspicion. With covetous eyes. Although his facilitator should be able to protect him, he couldn’t help but be anxious at the attention. It was a shock to realize that some thought to rob him, just for his clothes.
A beige dog ran in front from an alley. Other dogs barked in pursuit. Ezekiel stopped to let them past. Then stared in horror to realize that the lead dog held a human hand in its jaws. The skin was bleached, the fingernails discolored black. It might have come from some unfortunate dock worker, killed in last night’s fire.
Ezekiel had been powerless to stop that. His facilitator had raised a shield at the first sign of a pressure wave. He’d used all his concentration to maintain it, against the onslaught of intense heat and steel shrapnel. He’d saved those he could, but his shield’s range was limited. And his actions might have been noticed. All the more reason to now travel alone, to avoid awkward questions.
It was with relief that he finally reached the coastal area.
He walked a cobbled road lined with storehouses, judging by the loading platforms and winches, and numerous large sacks. Tiny lanes punctuated the way, and cranes loomed above, moving like lazy dinosaurs. Tall masts spread far behind them. Thin timber bridges crossed stagnant canals and frothing drains. Raucous gulls wheeled in the air. The heady stink of decay that covered the city was even stronger here. Pockets of wiry men with weary faces worked. Otherwise, the road was surprisingly quiet — especially after the bustle elsewhere in the city.
Ezekiel dared to power up his facilitator. He knew from stellar chemistry that nitrogen compounds were required for basic explosives. So he attempted to entangle with a range of different nitrogen ions. His mind flooded with light. They were everywhere. Bitterly, he realized that all he’d detected was putrefac
tion in the water courses. He checked different energy levels, and attempted to filter out background noise. With no success. When he tried again for sulfur it was even worse. He could discover no unique signal for explosives.
Ezekiel powered down his facilitator. If he found nothing here, then he’d lost the trail to Molric. The thought was deflating. He was fast running out of options. The last possibility was to hook up to this planet’s gravitational field, and fly over the city to search for a signal. He could refract light around himself, so as not to be seen. But that risked him being caught doing so. Jerine almost had, in his room yesterday. At best, his technology might be feared as sorcery — at worse, he could change what people believed in. Neither was welcome.
So how had Molric managed? He’d obviously had opportunity to become established. It was frustrating that he continued to elude detection.
A voice shouted a warning. The clip of hooves and rattle of wood followed it. Ezekiel squeezed out of the way of an oncoming cart. It passed by with a terrible smell. He saw with revulsion that it was loaded with trays of fish. They were all different shapes and sizes, and all dead. It was heart-breaking to see such slaughter.
He caught a movement among them — was one still alive? He quickly powered his facilitator, hoping to save something of it, even just record a biometric signature. He could store that alongside the copies he’d already saved from this world, not least Jerine, Erin, and the others. However, only weak residuals remained, and all of it useless. If he’d seen anything, it’d just been caused by the movement of the cart. Truly these lives were lost for good.
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 18
